Yesterday, I was having a sort-of ok day. As in, I didn't feel completely atrocious and that was a step forward. One... giant leap, if you will.
BUT I also noticed that my asthma meds were playing me up and I really should talk to the Quack because I should not be oscillating so frequently between tremula and lack of air.
According to my nails, I'm getting plenty of oxygen. According to my sensation of breathing, I'm struggling to get air.
That's bad. Something is wrong.
Beloved urged me to make an appointment, but my emotional frailty from the last week let me down and I wasn't ready to do it.
Until the middle of yesterday when the left side of my neck and jaw felt "funny".
My paranoia immediately classified this as heart problems and I was spurred by inspired desperation to make an appointment. Which is happening today. Which I am now irrationally afraid of going to.
MeMum's the same way. "What if they tell me I'm dying?" "What if it's cancer and I only have _____ to live?" and so on. So I'm telling myself the same thing I tell MeMum. Early diagnosis goes a long way towards solving it better.
I need a change in meds because this lot doesn't seem to be doing its jobs. And it appears to be doing me a damage. Once that's sorted, I can -ha!- breathe easier.
But I'm still bringing my lappy in case they need to drag me off to the hospital. Fun times.